Let the sleeping games begin

Not me or Mr. Sax, but other people have been sleeping late in our house all summer. It’s only early August, but I’ve already changed the spare room sheets enough times to make me feel like a hotel laundry. While we’ve enjoyed the company of our company, and Mr. Sax, aka the Grillmaster, loves any opportunity to show off (so far he’s served overnight visitors his signature BBQ ribs, BBQ chicken, rotisserie chicken, rotisserie turkey, grilled pork tenderloins, all accompanied by grilled sweet corn), the main thing that stands out about our guests is how they sleep, some of them well past the noon hour. Years ago a young boy we didn’t know stayed with us for a week. We were his hosts while he was involved in the Summer Program at the Children’s Center at the Bedford Women’s Correctional Facility. The boy, who 10 at the time, spent the hours between 9 and 3 with his mother; joining us afterwards for trips to the Katonah town pool, followed by a home cooked meal, and dessert from King Kone. The boy lived with his grandmother in one of the rougher neighborhoods in Brooklyn, and he couldn’t get over our night time quiet. In response to my question,  “How’d you sleep?” he said, “Good. There’s no gunshots or cars backfiring or people screaming,” relayed over Capt ‘n Crunch.

This batch of summer guests are also Sleeping Beauties. One guest arrived so exhausted and jet lagged after a three week journey hiking in the desert that she basically collapsed into a coma. One day she slept 13 hours. Another guest who claims she never sleeps in, slept until 10:30. She undoubtedly would have slept longer except that Mr. Sax started playing his instrument, and rather loudly.

This past week on unbearably sultry mornings, instead of rushing off , I’ve been lingering inside in the air conditioning to watch the 2012 Summer Olympics. I’m following, as best I can, wrestling, fencing, shooting, swimming, and, of course, equestrian. While I’m rooting for the entire American team, I am especially intrigued by Reed Kessler from nearby Armonk, who at 18 is the youngest person ever to compete on an Olympic equestrian team. In London, she is competing on Cylana, her 10 year old German Warmblood, who is related to McClain Ward’s now retired champion, Sapphire, through the Darco line. Reed’s impeccable posture and perfect hands are inspiring. It’s been said ice water runs in her veins, which is probably a good trait to have in this arena. In the months and weeks leading up to the Olympics, I heard a fair amount of grumbling and hostility directed at this girl; that she isn’t a “great” rider, but because of her family fortune has only ridden great horses. Like Reed, I, too, was a horse crazy child. My stepsister says she can’t remember when I wasn’t trying to touch, talk to, or get on some horse. One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was when my mother’s 2^rd husband, Maurice (Geraldine married numerous times), a wealthy Philadelphia furrier, offered to send me to any boarding school I chose so he could be alone with my mother. Why didn’t I say yes and let him pull whatever strings he claimed to have and apply to Ethel Walker, Linden Hall, or Oldfields? Because I was clueless. At 12 I didn’t know anyone who went to boarding school. Bad decision. I want a do-over.

In a classic case of “coulda, shoulda, woulda,” decades later, watching Reed in the Olympics, I wonder what might have happened if I’d taken Maurice up on his scheme. (For the record, he tried to woo me by gifting me the first time we met with a fall of authentic human hair; incensed, I threw it away.) So instead of going to a fancy boarding school and getting out of Dodge, I stuck around, and within days Maurice sought an annulment from my mother, who he said had tricked him (after a whirlwind courtship, they married while I was in the Poconos, at Camp Timber Tops). My mother blamed me that because of the split, she didn’t even get a mink coat. It all happened in August, after all. Far too warm for fur. How differently things might have gone if I’d only embraced boarding school. I’ll never know. But at least I can sleep like a log in the quiet of our house, dreaming of horses.